


lost all delight

by TolkienGirl



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Pre-LotR, Rivendell | Imladris, Set shortly after Celebrian's departure from Middle Earth, Third Age, complicated family dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23596663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: “I wished to see their faces again.”
Relationships: Celebrían & Galadriel | Artanis, Celebrían/Elrond Peredhel, Elrond Peredhel & Galadriel | Artanis, Galadriel & Maedhros | Maitimo, Galadriel | Artanis & Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	lost all delight

When Elrohir and Elladan have departed, and Arwen is surrounded by the grey-clad, comforting woman of Imladris, Elrond seeks solitude.

Grey has not seemed so corpse-like, so profaning to the bright spirit, for many years.

His heart is full of _her_. If he allows even a thought to touch it—

The vine-hung, winding stairs. The long, lonely chambers filled with books, parchments, paintings, maps. His hand trembles when he turns the key.

It is so rare for there to be locked doors in this city. It has always been open, for it has always been made safe.

Behind the turn of a key, behind the fall of a shroud, there are two corpses—but not in grey flesh.

In white marble.

Galadriel visits within two years. She is unchanged. That is how grief hangs on her—a mockery, that the mother would remain untarnished, that the husband of lesser blood would endure, when fair Celebrían could not.

After they have dined, and she has spoken long with Arwen, even laughing from time, dusk rolls in purple waves over the valley. The moon will not shine tonight.

Elrond finds her in the inner garden. He knows what _she_ will find there, and indeed, she stands facing the statues, each a head taller than she is tall, with her long hands folded behind her back.

Elrond says, “I never made her look upon them.”

“Why not? They were her kin.”

It is in moments like this when he feels his age, stretching so far beyond childhood and manhood, so far beyond his _brother’s_ life, that he wonders if he chose wrongly.

He cannot go back and choose differently. Even if he could, he _would_ not.

“I know there was no love between you and them,” he offers carefully. “And I would not have…dishonoured that.”

“You mistake me,” Galadriel says, turning. “There was unfortunately much love, at one time. I would not have called it so myself, until I felt its loss.”

Her eyes gleam in the darkness. So do his—so do all the eyes of the Eldar—but Galadriel’s burn more fiercely than any left in Middle Earth.

“They were kind to me, after their fashion.”

She does not answer.

“I wished to see their faces again.”

“They say that Maglor still walks the shores of our land. Could you not seek him out?”

Elrond shakes his head. “If he…if he lives, he is veiled from me.”

“And from me likewise,” Galadriel agrees, turning from the stony visages of her cousins. “But we visited the sea, when Celebrían was a child, and she told me of a strange elf she saw. His hair matted. His eyes wild. Singing. You can imagine, how I searched.”

The sound of _her_ name touches the throbbing pain in his heart. He clenches the folds of his sleeves in each hand, his arms drawn close to his breast.

“It was my sons who found her.”

“A grief, that,” Galadriel agrees. “But it was my daughter they found. You are very young, Half-elven, by my count, if not the count of elves and men. I lived not knowing what evil was, when _I_ was young. Even pettiness and anger seemed strange and unconscionable to us. Thus the Valar cast Fëanor down from his lofty perch as master-elf. Still, I knew nothing. Not until the Ice. Not until the long ages of death. And even so, I wed. Even so, I bore a child. Do you think I would have done so without utmost confidence in my own strength? In my own power to protect her?”

He is silent, tasting his own blood. He healed—he did his best to heal. And it was not enough.

“A heavy burden we bore, for loving. You and I closed our hearts around a singular jewel. I was glad all my old kin were gone, when she was born. _They_ would never touch my daughter. Fëanor would not covet her as a thing created. His sons could not have treated her as a means with which to bargain.”

“And the curse renews,” Elrond cries. “For three children did Celebrían give to me, and they are—”

“Not yours in the end.” Galadriel gazes far into the night that covers them. “Mayhap even Fëanor did not know what the darkness would be to those who did not die as soon as he did.” She smiles, terribly, then resumes repose. “No,” she says, more quietly. “Were we to slay every far-flung servant of Gorthaur defeated—” and it has been long, long indeed since Elrond heard _that_ name—“You and I should no more be able to rest.”

Young though she had called him, weeping was for those younger still than he. Elrond would never again feel tender hopes, would no longer share the mortals’ quest to fend off certain sorrow.

“I could have departed with her,” he says, his memory filled with the sight of the ship slipping down the sands, into silver waters. “But there is work, still, to be done here.”

“You are wise, in your way,” Galadriel accedes. “I knew it when she brought you to me. I knew it even though you forgave these two.” She lifts a hand, but does not touch the marble. “Maglor is a good study, after all. But your sculptor has not captured Maedhros wholly. How could he? You only knew him after he was marred.”

Galadriel departs a week later, promising that she will soon return.


End file.
